


you heard the thunder but ignored the rain

by Wickedlovely01



Series: we wrote a story in the fog on the windows that night [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, i was tired of writing my 'damsel in distress alex', lol no this isn't really comfort, so i made him the villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wickedlovely01/pseuds/Wickedlovely01
Summary: you heard the thunder but ignored the painbut yet you wonder just why you dug my graveyou saw, my dear,but you cannot see.(b.l) aka - the one where alexander disappears without a trace, and hercules, john, and lafayette are left to pick up the pieces





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello! it's been a while, hasn't it? i'm sorry for being so absent. i've really wanted to write, but my brain hates me, and also so does school and work and looking for colleges. this probably isn't my best work, but you guys deserve something. anyways, this is based on rent, because that's also one of my favorite musicals, and there's a lot of things you can do with both. for obvious reasons, there will be spoilers for rent, and lots of triggers, so caution before reading.
> 
> the following list contains trigger warnings. more will be added if needed.  
> \- drug use  
> \- drug abuse  
> \- physical abuse  
> \- mental abuse  
> \- child abuse  
> \- anxiety  
> \- depression

**i.**

John shivered against the cold as he stapled another flyer to a telephone pole. It was almost too dark to see, and the part of the city they hand landed themselves in wasn’t very well lit. The stapler fell from his fingers, numb and red from the cold. He’d only been able to afford fingerless, threadbare gloves this year. That was all anyone was able to afford. There was once a time where him and Lafayette, at least, could provide themselves with faux mink mittens and luxurious trench coats. He and Laf often had made trips to Michael Kors to buy the latest fashion. But the economy had gone south as of late, and John gambled in black alleyways too often, and there was Alexander, with his drug problem.

Or, at least, there _had_ been Alexander.

John looked at the small sheet of printer paper, studied the grainy black and white picture of his boyfriend. It was the most recent picture taken of him, just three weeks old, yet to John, Alex looked like a complete stranger. Everyone knew the side effects of heroin; sunken eyes and cheeks, cracked lips, bloodshot eyes. You were a skeleton rather than a human, with bones prominent instead of strong muscle. Sometimes Alex couldn’t even lift up a coffee mug, though this was also due to his own malnutrition. In this picture it looked as if someone had managed to get Alexander to sleep, because his eyes were closed. His hair was loose around his face, stringy and greasy. He didn’t take showers often. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and John was glad that they had chosen this picture. At least the lost man looked peaceful.

They didn’t know when Alexander had exactly left. One moment, he rushed into their lives like the hurricane he was, bringing with him worry and love, and the next he had receded away from them, like a calm ocean wave. John loved Alex, he really did, but after he ran away there was nothing but ugliness and destruction. He wondered if it would’ve been better if they never let him into their lives.

“Laurens,” A thick voice sounded to the right of him. Laf. He sounded stuffed up. John hoped he wasn’t coming down with something; they couldn’t afford to get cold medicine, and they sure as hell couldn’t afford a damn doctor. The medical books in their run down apartment only taught John so much, and it wasn’t like they had natural remedies growing in their kitchen. There wasn’t an orange tree spreading its leave in the terrace. Besides, with all the help the books provided, they were better used for fire starters. “We should go back home. It’s getting colder out.”

“No. Please? Just five more flyers. I know it’s cold, but... This is _Alex_ we’re trying to find. _Our Alex._ ”  His voice broke through the freezing air. He wiped his raw nose.

“Oh,” Lafayette pulled John towards him when the tears came. They came so easily now, because in John’s mind, it had been better to have a dead man living with him than no man at all. Times were tough, they always had been with Alexander, but John didn’t actually mind giving him money that they didn’t have, money that they couldn’t spend on heroin. It probably wasn’t a very good relationship to be in. John didn’t care.  John liked the way Alexander kissed him after he was nice and drugged up. John liked the way Alexander was calm and he liked the way his pupils got big. It was like the universe was stored in the blackness of Alexander, guiding John to where he needed to be, and now... now he was gone. “Oh, my John. He’ll come back.”

“We don’t know that!” John shuddered out, clutching onto Laf’s jacket, shaking him firmly. The jacket smelled like their apartment, like cigarettes and musty cologne, and the mornings he woke up to when the sky was purple and pulsating with promises. “We don’t...” He took a deep breath, settling down and pressing his nose to the soft, worn suede. He smelled Hercules as well. Earthy. Minty. He did not smell Alexander Hamilton. “We don’t know he’s going to come home, and that’s why I want to put out more flyers, because he’s... he’s gonna get lost, Laf. He doesn’t know the city like we do. He doesn’t know the dangers of the city, or of the strangers that try and take you in at night, and he doesn’t understand how bad withdrawal can be, because we all know he doesn’t have the money to sustain his addiction, and-”

“John.”

“We have to keep trying!”

Lafayette’s voice was tired, and John supposed that was his fault. Ever since Alex left, John had been invested into finding him. There had been no rest for the three of them. They had either been out working or out searching, and John himself had only scarfed down a peanut butter sandwich that Hercules made him. He wondered if this is what Alexander felt like - if the fire in John’s veins was the very fire that drove Alex to write and to run like he did.

“You need sleep. _I_ need sleep. We _all_ need sleep. Baby, we’ll keep looking when we’re all rested up, okay? You’re shivering, and I don’t think it’s just from the cold. You need to eat something warm and plentiful, sweetheart.”

“I... I guess you’re right...” 

Lafayette pulled John away from the street lamp. “I know I am.” He kissed the top of his head as John looked down at the posters. “Don’t worry, _mon cher,_ we will find our dearest Alexander.”

**LOST**

**ALEXANDER HAMILTON**

**BORN: JANUARY 11TH, 1980**

**HAIR: DARK BROWN, SHOULDER LENGTH**

**EYES: DARK BROWN**

**DATE MISSING: FEBRUARY 17TH, 2002**

  


 

**ii.**

It had been a long time since John had gotten into a fight.It had been Hercules that made John promise to stop being so damn reckless all the time and think about what he was doing when he raised his fists. Of course, this didn’t stop John from practicing. You could still find him down in the apartment’s dingy, sordid low ceiling room which they called their gym. It didn’t have all the amenities that the Blue Fitness had across the street, but it was cheap and it was lonely, and that was all that John needed. There was a treadmill in one corner, and John only used that when he wanted to burn up like a star, feel his throat become scorched. Weights and a mirror lined another, and John could track the progress of his biceps, or watch sweat drip from his brow. He mainly used the punching bag, though, and pretended it was various people.

His father.

His boss.

Charles Lee.

Alexander.

Winter had given way to spring, and John’s hopes of finding his boyfriend had melted and metamorphosed into anger. The signs that had been on street lamps and the sides of buildings had long been stapled or taped over, now advertising the new Iphone or limited edition Pepsi. John didn’t really care. Stopped caring a long time ago when Alex stopped caring about coming home. His therapist said that it was a good thing to get his anger out, that this was a normal part of grief, but John didn’t know exactly what he was grieving over.

Maybe he was grieving over the way Alexander’s eyes twinkled, even on cloudy days.

Maybe he was grieving over the way Alexander stood up for John, no matter the circumstance.

Maybe he was grieving over the way Alexander whispered how he loved him when he was high.

Maybe John was angry because he _knew_ that Alex had been bad for him. They’d met their sophomore year of high school, dabbled in nicotine together, slowly graduated to pot. At first, John did it to get back at his asshole of a father. A real fuck you to senator Henry Laurens. His once perfect son going down the crapper just because of a greasy caribbean kid. After a while, though, Henry stopped reacting to John coming home with his legs like new foals and his eyes pink, but Alex still pressured him. He told him that he loved John when he was high because he made him laugh and smile again, so John kept with the pot. He let Alex pressure him, watched him as he moved onto heroin, and didn’t stop him, because John loved Alex and he was _stupid_ and he didn’t want to ever lose the boy with the stars in his eyes.

At any rate, the punching bag helped, and John stayed down here most of his days and all of his nights. He only went up to get a new change of clothes or to go to work. Lafayette and Hercules rarely saw him; only glanced at them when they came to coax food into his body.

There’s these two women who sometimes come in. Angelica and Eliza.

John becomes good friends with them.

Angelica is a woman of twenty-eight, and John swears she is built of steel and forged of fire. Her body is as strong as an oak, her brown eyes piercing him straight into his heart whenever they box together. John never hits her, and it’s not because she’s a woman. He just promised Hercules that as long as they dated he’d never lay a hand on another human being. Angelica is quick, though, and John doubts he could hit her even if he wanted to. She tells him about her life, how she grew up too quickly and lived too slowly. She tells him that her mother died at a young age, leaving her to take care of Eliza and their little sister, Peggy. John can’t say he doesn’t relate, and Angelica strikes a nerve in his heart. He gives her pointers on how to throw punches instead of just dodging them, and after a month or two she’s proficient enough to actually nick his jaw. They grow close, grab a coffee or two together, and slowly, Angelica introduces John back into the world, helps him to cut back on his cigarette usage. John can’t deny that Alexander would have really liked her.

Eliza is a couple of months younger than Alex, and she’s comprised of blossoms that bloom in may, and the forest fires in june. John watches her black hair rush back and forth like inky waves when she’s on the treadmill, looks at how her hands shake when she’s lifting weights after a long day at her daycare center. Eliza says what her sister won’t, like the fact that they’re both still little girls, like how they’re struggling to pay for Peggy’s college because their father paid for theirs so he doesn’t have enough, like how there’s nightmares waiting for them each night, and Eliza is finding it harder and harder to get Angelica to calm down. She’s perceptive. Loyal. Honest. Funny. Eliza says she’s waiting for the next great adventure in her life, but John doesn’t think that’s exactly true. John thinks that Eliza is going to grab adventure by the ear and make it her bitch.

Alexander would have loved her, and John knows this.

Alexander would have been Eliza’s next great adventure, and John knows this as well.

The Schuyler sisters make John leave the gym with them every night, and Lafayette greets all three of them with open arms. He’ll treat Angelica and Eliza with soups and dinner rolls, because even though it’s the middle of may there’s still a chill in the air. Hercules will pull John into his arms, and sometimes John will push away, because that is how Alex hugged him, like he was china and glass and not _human_. Most of the time, though, he’ll just sink into his broad chest, tell him that he loves him, and allow Hercules to braid his hair on the couch.

 

 

**iii.**

With Angelica and Eliza around, it’s like they’ve sewn up the hole that Alexander left, but Hercules knows better.

Hercules knows better because his job is to sew things together, stitch felt hearts to a jean jacket that a little girl wanted because she wanted to dress up like her dead mother from the nineties. For a short time, everything seems to fall together, to fit perfectly, and everyone forgets about what had been there just days before. Hercules doesn’t deny that there are times where he forgets the way he used to give Alexander baths at three a.m, when the whole world was asleep and they were able to talk freely. Those nights were the nights where Alex had whispered _I love you_ and Hercules had asked _Why_ and Alex just replied, _Because you’re patchwork._ Hercules will sometimes forget that The Sandlot was one of Alex’s favorite movies, high or sober, and he’ll forget the reason Lafayette looks at their bed like something’s missing.

And then he’ll remember that clothes and humans are the same. Both don’t stay together for very long, no matter how much thread you have or what kind of knot you use. He’ll remember that Alexander left a hole in their hearts that no one can fix, and he’ll remember that Alex once had pushed Lafayette into the wall because he was denied money. He’ll remember that John would come home all bloody and bruised, with his only explanation being that he’d gotten into a fight because of Alex. He’ll remember that Alex had more strength high than sober, and one time had tried to drown him. Hercules also remembers that the felt hearts on the little girl’s jacket will someday come off, and the pearls on the wedding veils he makes will be crushed under heels at the reception.

Hercules sees the toll it has taken on them all. Lafayette has no energy to argue, lets John just get away with whatever he does because Alex was the gasoline. Without him, Lafayette is just a spark, and he can’t grow into the brilliant inferno Hercules knows that he can be. John is angry almost all the time now, has been since the police had stopped looking, and he’ll scream and yell about dust on the floor or a chipped plate. Alex used to be the mediator for all of it, just soaked it up like a sponge and held John until he stopped shaking and spitting. Hercules knows that Alexander isn’t all bad, or, at least, doesn’t want to believe that he is. He knows that there were nights where all four of them were actually home, settled on the couch, with popcorn between their legs and movies playing on the flat screen. He knows there’s days where Alexander came home with presents just because, and no one questioned where he got the money.

Strangely, Alexander is very ambitious. He’ll fight to keep all three of them, and Hercules found that admirable until the day he left.

Hercules is walking in central park alone. He does that a lot. John’s probably in the gym or still working. Lafayette is knocked out with the sleeping pills he has to take now. Alex did that. Alex made it so Lafayette wakes up in the middle of the night screaming without them. Hercules can’t find it in him to hate the guy.

The sky is grey like his life. He thinks it might rain soon. Hopes it doesn’t. Hopes that Alex will be someplace warm and dry if it does. There’s threading needles in his pockets; Hercules pricks himself to know that he’s alive. “I wish you were here,” He whispers to the lost boy in his memories.

“I know that you’re an abusive dick addicted to heroin. I know that you irritated Laf, and encouraged John. I know that I should hate you because of what you did to us, because you practically destroyed us. But I can’t, and I miss you, and I’m starting to hate _myself_ for it. Which, you know, is fucked up, but that’s just how life is.”

He stops in the middle of the path so some ducks could waddle into the pond. He sighs, continues walking.

“You can’t possibly know this, because you ran away and never came back, but Laf can’t sleep anymore. I literally can’t fucking get him to sleep more than three hours a night, which is so fucking unhealthy. He’ll wake up screaming your name because he believes you’ve been murdered or kidnapped or tortured or some _fucked up shit like that._ There’s circles under his eyes, and Washington has only allowed him one day at the office now. And I should hate you for that. But I don’t.

“I never see John anymore. He’s either at work or at the gym, and sometimes the Schuyler sisters can get him to come up at a reasonable time, but sometimes Angelica will have to carry him up, and he’s gone before the sun rises. He’s working himself into an early grave, just like you used to do in college. What the fuck happened with you? I know you’ve always been a druggie, but you’ve always been so full of life, so why did you leave? I should hate you for leaving. I should hate you because I never see one of my boyfriends, and the other one is a constant nervous wreck. Logic says I should hate you. But I don’t.”

When Hercules goes home, John is there, Lafayette curled on his chest, and they both have tears streaming down their faces. Lafayette is sleeping, and John continues to smooth down his rough curls.

“You’re home.” Hercules remarks.

“Lafayette had a nightmare.” John explains, like he’s been there for every single one this month.

“Alex?”

“Who else.”

“I’ve missed you. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s Angelica?”

“Fine.”

“Eliza?”

“Fine.”

“How’re you?”

John pauses, his entire body freezing, and he clears his throat to regain his composure. Hercules pretends not to notice tears coming out of his eyes, but it’s hard for him to ignore the way his breath hitches, how every movement must hurt him. Still, he cannot hate Alex, even when the felt patches are peeling painfully off. “I miss him. Everyday. I know I say that I hate him. But I don’t. I miss... I miss Alexander.”

Hercules Mulligan sews John Laurens up again that night.

 

**iv.**

“I’m going back to France.” Says Lafayette on a sultry summer day. The windows are open, curtains wafting in humid air and the scent of sewage and street food. It didn’t smell that much different than Paris. Outside, he can hear honking of horns, and the faraway chatter of the people down below. He wonders if Alex is down there. He knows he shouldn’t. He still does. Will probably always do. In reality, it had only been five months since Alexander left, but to Lafayette, it had felt like forever. Forever meant neverending pills. Forever meant withholding Hercules from his work because he was afraid he’d never return. Forever meant scars on your arms and legs. Lafayette was tired of forever.

John peeled himself off the couch to look at him. “You’re crazy. You’re not going back to France. That’s just fucking stupid.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, Laurens.”

“Don’t say that kind of shit, Laf.”

Hercules comes from the office that used to be Alexander’s. Laf helped him convert it into a studio for his models and fabrics. John fought against it at first; slept in it on the floor every night with Alex’s pillow pet and a plethora of his sweatshirts as a mattress and blankets. Lafayette thinks it was cruel of Alex to leave his shit here. He can’t ever forget him when there’s his shampoo bottle staring at him in the shower. He can’t forget him when Alex picked out the plates for the kitchen. He can’t forget him when Alex was the one who bought all the cacti for the office because they were _prickly_ just like him, and Hercules won’t throw them out, just sticks his pins in them, because they’re living things and don’t deserve the harsh winter. He can’t forget him when Alex was the one who made their bed warm again, and Laf would like to think that waking up next to a skeleton with chapped lips is better than waking up to no skeleton at all.

Lafayette can’t forget Alexander, but he’d like to try.

He feels Hercules wrap his arms around his waist, kiss the shell of his ear, and Laf would like to say he feels something deep inside him. But when Alexander left he took love and he took hope. “I have to go.” He explains, and Hercules just hums against his skin, slightly sways the both of them.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I can't forget him, Herc. He left, and he didn't take anything, and I’m constantly reminded of him. I can't sleep anymore; the pills stopped working a long time ago, and I’m _tired._ I’m tired of not being able to be the boyfriend I need to be. I’m tired of being a burden.”

“You're not.”

“I am. Please don't argue. I’m tired of my skin itching when I walk down the street. I can't forget Alex. I can’t forget the hole he left in my heart-”

“Laf, sweetheart, you don’t need to explain. It’s okay. You can leave.”

“I’m not going to be Alex!” Lafayette’s voice carried through the small apartment, ringing like a bell in the corners of the ceiling. Everything was silent, save for the episode of Top Gun that John was watching. Hercules at some point had disconnected from Laf, leaving him to stand alone by the window, breath heaving and eyes a little crazed. “I’m not... I’m not going to be him.”

It was John who came up to Laf, grabbed his hands, and kissed his nose. “You’re not. Why would you think that? You’re nothing like him. You’re not begging on your knees for money, not making promises you know you can’t keep. You don’t disappear for days on end - you don’t disappear _at all_ , actually. I’m sorry I said you’re not going to France. You can go. Please don’t think you’re Alex. I love you. You’re not Alex. You’re not a heartbreaker.”

He took a shaky breath. “I just don’t want to leave you two alone, thinking that I’m never coming back. I don’t want you to be reminded of me whenever you walk down the street. I don’t want you to look at the fucking dishes and be like ‘Shit. Laf bought these. I feel like crying.’ I don’t want to be the one who fucks everything up. But I also don’t want to live here anymore. I love America, but... Alex... Ever since he left...”

“He’s broken all the happiness here for you, hasn’t he?” John’s voice was clear. Laf watched him swallow, watched the tears in his eyes form.

“How could you tell?”

“You’re not exactly great at hiding your feelings, Lafayette.” Hercules interjected, stepping forward once again. He took both of them in his arms, and Lafayette wished for a moment he hadn’t bought the plane ticket already. He wished he could stay and be held by the tailor who sewed up his heart, and be kissed by the boy whose lips were like firecrackers.

 

**v.**

“Happy Christmas, Herc.” John mumbled, lips grazing his boyfriend’s closely shaved jaw. There was a little stubble on it, but not much. Hercules would have been happy to shave it all off, but John liked the little pricks he received while they were making out on the couch. They were in their bed, wrapped up in blankets and each other. John could see his breath in the air.

“Merry Christmas, John.” Came the sleepy response.

It had been three-hundred and eleven days since Alexander left. John wasn’t necessarily counting anymore. He used to, back when the police still gave a damn, when Alex’s face was plastered over telephone poles and on the ten o’clock news every night. John knew that somewhere in a far off landfill, there was a journal just filled with tallies of everything that he missed with Alex. A page for every time John smoked without him. A page for every night he spent alone. He threw it away when he started working out. So he wasn’t counting, but it was Christmas, and it would’ve been selfish of him not to give his ex a thought.

“D’you wanna make breakfast, or shall I?” He asked, and his eyes were still closed. The world was starting to shed its skin of the old year; peeling away wars and heartbreak. John hoped that this new decade would treat him better. He hoped that he could get closure, or, rather, more than he already had. He’d come to terms with the whole ‘Alex is not coming home’ type thing. That didn’t really bother him as much as it used to. Hercules and him had given all of Alex’s gently used clothes to the local goodwill, and got rid of the clutter of paper that resided in the closet. It was therapeutic, and after that day John had cut back gym time to two days a week. What he really wanted to know was what happened to Alexander. John wondered if he was still out in New York, scavenging for scraps or begging for a needle, or if he was already dead from overdose.

He didn’t think he was dead. If Alex had died, they would have contacted one of them.

“You can.” Hercules replied, and John was moved from his very warm spot in the bed as Hercules sat up and stretched. Even with an apartment that didn’t have functional heating, he still slept shirtless. “I have to go pick Laf up from the airport.”

The two men got ready for the holiday in silence. John slipped on a red flannel and dark khaki pants, pulled his hair back. He looked in the mirror sitting beside the bed. He looked older, and this was normal, because humans aged, but it seemed as if the bags under his eyes were not supposed to appear for another fifteen years. He wonders if the side effects of the drugs he took long ago have finally caught up to him, or if this was due to stress. John doesn’t think it matters. He heads into the kitchen.

Without Alex and Lafayette, John and Hercules were able to combine their income and make some sort of living. It still wasn’t what it had been when all four of them were together at the beginning, but then again, nothing was like it had been. Some things were constant though, like the shitty heating, and the bright red, blue, and yellow plates in the kitchen. The view from the windows were the same as well, and John noted it was snowing pretty steadily. He hoped Laf would get here okay. He hoped Alex was warm. John starts to mix eggs in a bowl, turning on the staticy radio.

“I’ll be back in a hour.” Hercules calls out, and John can see him slipping on gloves through the blurry surface of the fridge.

“Be careful.” He says. John means it, too. Months ago, he probably wouldn’t have cared if Hercules had slipped on some black ice, or perished in a fiery car accident. But he does now. Losing two of the ones you loved the most changes a lot of things about you.

“I always am.” The door closes behind him.

There’s a six minute rock song blaring from the radio, but John doesn’t listen to it. Partly because they get horrible reception here, and partly because he just doesn’t care about the music. It’s just background noise for him.

His therapist says that he’s moved from anger to depression, but John disagrees. He says he’s never been happier. _Thinks_ he’s never been happier. Doesn’t know if he actually believes it himself, but desperately wants to. He’s annoyed because he wanted to be over this whole grieving think back in May, but his therapist says that there’s no set time period for the five stages. He gives John a metaphor to help him understand, but John isn’t five years old. He understands perfectly fine, just doesn’t want to deal with it anymore.

Eliza calls halfway through John dipping texas toast in the egg mixture, and he picks up on the last ring. “Hey, ‘Liza.”

“Whatcha doin today?”

He smiles. Stares out the window. “Hanging out with Herc and Laf. He’s coming back from France for two weeks. I have a present for you, if you and Angelica wanted to come get it.”

“Aw, John, you shouldn’t have.”

“No, no. I should’ve. You and Angelica have done so much for me these past few months. It’s the least I could do.”

“Well… I suppose we could stop by. It’s Christmas, after all, and father is busy with paperwork for his retirement. He wanted us home, of course, but Angie couldn’t get the time off.”

John smiled, holding the phone with his shoulder as he turned on the electric stove. There were orange flecks of spaghetti sauce splattered across the white surface. He would have to clean that up before Laf came home. “Of course.”

“Hey, so… You know how you were looking for that kid back in February? Alex? Well, um… I think Angelica found him.”

The dripping bread John had in his hand fell to the floor with a splat. “ _What?”_ He whispered into the receiver, his voice tight and strained. The world seemed to be spinning, colors melting together like candle wax, so he closed his eyes. “You found _Alex?_ Alexander. The kid who has been missing for three hundred and eleven days, fourteen hours, and seven minutes? Found him. Just like that?”

Okay. So maybe he had been counting.

“Yeah. Angie found him in central park, shivering and coughing. He’s been asking for you, for home.”

“Fuck... Shit.”

“What do you want us to do?”

All of John’s hard work, all of the fucking therapy sessions where he admitted what happened, all of the money he spent into fixing his broken heart, all of the nights he spent with Hercules and Lafayette trying to pick up the pieces had gone down the drain. “Bring him home. Bring my Alexander home.”

John spent the next couple of minutes peeling clothes and paper plates off of their dusty couch. The radio played something. John didn’t care. He looked at the christmas tree in the corner. It was drooping and sad; Hercules didn’t want to spend so much on something they were going to keep for so little time, and for a while John had fought him on it. Christmastime was Alexander’s favorite time of the year, and so why should they diminish one of the only things he truly enjoyed? But money was still tight, and Hercules won the fight. John wished that he hadn’t. John should have known Alex was never going to miss Christmas Day. He hated the tree now, and started to try to make it look better when there was a knock on the door. Instantly, John practically flew to it and opened it.

“Al...Alexander.”

It wasn’t like he hadn’t _believed_ Eliza over the phone. She was his friend and therefore had no reason to lie to him, but there was a part of him that thought she would have mistaken Alexander for some other scraggly homeless guy. As it was, Alex looked nothing like himself. His hair had grown longer, the hair on his chin no longer just a five o’clock shadow. His eyes were half closed, his cheeks sunken, lips cracked. The clothes on his body were foreign to John, hanging off of Alex like he was a skinny brass pole. He was supported on both sides by Eliza and Angelica, yet he was panting as if he had just finished a marathon.

“He’s got a high fever. I don’t think he realized where he was.” Angelica explained as John grabbed Alex and ushered him to the couch. Alex felt like he was burning; a fire entity instead of a human boy. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and John couldn’t see his pupils as he covered him up in all their tattered blankets.

“Eliza, please get me a cool washcloth. They’re hanging off the oven handle.” John asked quietly, but never taking his eyes off of Alex, for fear of him disappearing altogether. He grabbed his hands, smoothed down the ratty hair.

“J-J...Jack...” Alex croaked. His voice sounded the same. Rough and nasally, gravelley, and so desperate. So desperate that it hurt John’s heart, and he felt it split in two. “I...”

“Shh, baby girl, shh.” John cooed, taking the cloth Eliza had handed him, and started patting it across Alexander’s burning brow. “It’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe.”

“I w-want to see... s-see Jack. I wanna g-go home. H...Home. P-Please let me go home... I’m so tired... Home... Home...” Alexander was fading, John could see it in his half-lidded eyes. He looked to Angelica for help, and she surged over to the kitchen, bringing over another wet washcloth, squeezing some water into his mouth.

Eliza rubbed John’s back as he watched Alexander blaze brighter, feel hotter. She was there for him when his breaths got slow and uneven, and Angelica had started to hold his shaking hands. John listened as Alex’s mad ramblings got quieter and quieter, until they were almost non-existent, and that’s probably what scared him the most. How cruel was it to make John into Tantalus? To watch his former lover dangle right before him, but never again be attainable. To look in his dark eyes and see nothing but hopelessness?

John kept vigil even when he called Hercules to tell him the news. He kept vigil when Lafayette took the phone and spewed at him in French, because how could John do this to him? How could John bring Alex home when John _knew_ he wasn’t fully healed? How could John except them to stay in the same apartment as the man who literally _destroyed every happy moment he had._

The truth was was that John was an inherently selfish creature. He wasn’t Alex, of course, wouldn’t run off without any explanation, wouldn’t pressure others to do what he wanted, but he did things entirely for himself. He kept vigil solely because he was a selfish boy and an even more selfish man.

And the smile that he gave when the sun was going down and Alexander finally opened his eyes again? That wasn’t for Alex’s health. That was for selfish John, because he’d won.

 

**vi.**

It had been four months since Alexander had returned to them. The adjusting period was tough; John had to make a conscious effort not to shut everyone out again. He thought he’d gotten over his anger a long time ago, but apparently the wound was still there. It would always be there. John would always have trust issues, he would forevermore wake up in the middle of the night like clockwork, check if Laf was screaming, check if Alex was still _there._ He always was. He was always in the living room, scribbling down something on a tattered notebook; the tv in the corner playing reruns or just black and white static. This was when John had Alex to himself.

“Hey,” John begins, and when Alex grunts to acknowledge his presence, he sits down next to him. “It’s like... two in the morning.”

“I know.” Alexander’s voice is a whisper. He’s not that loud anymore. Pragmatic. Those months changed him, and though John was thankful he was off of heroin, he kind of missed his old Alex. He missed the Alex who would gnaw his shirt in the morning because he could smell the eggs John was cooking. He missed the Alex, who, even high, would speak more sense than John’s silver tongued father ever did sober. He missed the Alex who was unpredictable, like the hurricane everyone knew him to be.

John runs a hand through Alex’s hair. It’s soft, but more greasy than silky. He’d have to take a shower soon. John would probably have to help him. Alex still couldn’t hold himself up for long periods of time. His doctor told John it was because of the drug abuse, and because of his malnourished state. “You should sleep, baby girl. The articles can wait until tomorrow.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to talk to you, turtle.”

John knows Alex says this for two reasons. One, he really does want to talk to John. He’s interested in their lives now. Helps Hercules with his sewing. Helps Lafayette calm down. Helps John make dinner. He spends a little less time in his office, and more time watching movies with them. They’ve had Star Wars marathons - Alex gets just as excited as Hercules does when they mention fan theories. But Alex is also inherently selfish, and John doesn’t think that any amount of running away would solve that. John knows that Alexander doesn’t sleep, barely eats, hates to take care of himself. That will never change.

“Besides,” Alexander adds, running his wrist across his nose. “It’s not an article I’m writing.”

“Oh yeah?” John chuckles, pulling the other man closer to him. Alex shivers under his touch; John wonders if he’s running a fever again, but there’s no red spots on his cheeks, and his dark eyes had always shown this crazed delirium since they day they met. “Then what are you writing?” He reaches for the notebook, but Alex whips it away from him.

“It’s nothing. Therapy. Dr. Washington says I should write down my accounts of what happened while I was gone. Don’t read it. You can’t read it. It’s private. It’s private. I don’t want you to know.” John throws his hands up in the air as a sign of defeat, and he can see Alexander visibly relax. He’d never been this possessive before, and John wonders what the fuck happened to Alex. He wonders how many times he had to fight to sleep in some filthy corner, or if he had to fight for a can of green beans.

He never told anyone where he had been or what happened. To this day, he still gave John different accounts of his reasoning whenever he asked, and John knows no one knows the actual thing that sent Alex running for the hills. He doesn’t think it had been fear, though. Fear made everyone hide and cower, but it made Alexander soldier forged of steel and iron. Washington hypothesised with Lafayette that it might’ve been the promise of domesticity, of fulfillment, of structure in his life, of the prospect of stopping the heroin surging through his body.

To John, finding out _why_ didn’t matter so much anymore. All that really mattered to him was that Alex was warm, and safe, and happy. He didn’t care about the past and never pushed. Sometimes little hooks of curiosity snagged at his brain, and it was times like these that he did want to ask what the fuck Alexander’s thought processes were, but he refrained. Lafayette constantly wanted answers, wanted to know everything he thought, everything he did. He wanted to know what drugs Alex took, how he got his meals at night. Most of the time, Alex didn’t even have answers for him. Lafayette got worse the more months he stayed here.

Hercules was pretty much neutral. Or numb. John wasn’t quite sure, and Hercules was hard to read.

For a while, they sat in the darkness, Alex writing, and John lazily listening to the television. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes. Wondered what he did or did not to deserve all that he had. He wrapped a hand around Alexander’s free one, squeezed it. He wished things had been different. He wished that Alexander’s mother hadn’t died, because then he’d’ve been happy. He wished his own mother hadn’t died, because then maybe she would have realized Henry was a dick, and John would not have had to sit through years of abuse. He supposes he still does, with Alex, and he supposes that his mother knew about Henry. But maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe John was just going through the motions again, but he thinks that maybe Alex has gotten better.

Maybe John wants to believe that Alex yells at them less, and maybe he wants to believe that the gifts he brings home are Just Because I Love You gifts instead of the normal I Feel Guilty and I’m Sorry gifts. Maybe Lafayette is just taking a long time to heal, and maybe Hercules is numb because of his client’s story that hit a little too close to home. But maybies do not indicate change, and sometimes when John looks at himself in the mirror, he understands that there is no transformation. There is still dark circles under his eyes from worry. There is still chapped lips. There is still the smoker’s cough he has from three a.m hijinks with Alexander. He’ll look again at his lovers, and see the daggers Laf shoots at Alex when he isn’t looking, and he’ll see that whenever Alex hugs Hercules he never returns the loving enthusiasm he used to. He’ll keep staring at the mirror and realize that he is still afraid of Alexander’s words, and that he never actually escaped his father’s hands.

After a while the sun starts to rise, and Alex continues to write, and John continues to fall down the endless rabbit hole he’s found himself in. He chooses to ignore Alex’s abusive tendencies, he's decided, simply because this life is infinitely more desirable than any other he could think of.

“Jack?” Alexander’s voice is still soft. _Alexander_ is still soft. He's still there, with John, and at least John knows that Alex is trying, and Lafayette might not like it, and Hercules may be indifferent, but to John that's enough.

“Yeah, baby girl?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays everyone. i might make this into a series, idk. let me know what you think


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